


Memento Mori

by kangeiko



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-12
Updated: 2005-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney knows about caution. Written for the 'what if?' alias500 challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

"You know, they burn witches here."

"They do _not_."

"Do _so_. I could tell them that you're a witch like Baba Maya is, and they'd burn you. You'd crisp up and your skin would totally _cook_."

"I'm telling mama you're being mean!"

"And I'm telling her you're being a baby. See who she tells off first! Ha!"

Nadia wriggled free of her sister's grasp and sped off, turning to yell back, "well, I'm gonna tell Baba Maya that you called her a witch! See who she _beats_ first! _Ha_!"

Sydney glared at her sister's retreating back and thought about lobbing a stone in her direction. She decided against it. Her aim really was rather good and she didn't want to get in _real_ trouble.

Anyway, Nadia was just being a baby. But that was okay, 'cause Nadia was mostly a baby anyhows, and she didn't know any more Russian than Sydney did.

Sydney sat herself down on a likely boulder on the edge of the pit and glared down into the blasted foundations. When she'd asked Mom why there were so many holes in the ground – so that the entire plain was pitted with craters and chalk – she'd been told that there was construction work happening. Sydney had been confused, because it didn't look like there was _any_ work happening.

"You don't listen to her," Baba Maya had told her later in broken English, nodding in Mom's direction. "She only speaks the _party_ truth." It was odd how she had said it, stressing 'party' like it was a special word, like there were different kinds of truths. Sydney had almost understood.

"What's your truth? Babo," she had amended quickly, almost forgetting again.

"They start to build, and then they stop. Go and stop. Stop and go. Like that, everywhere. They bring it down, but there's no money to put it back up. So now, there's holes everywhere." She had gripped Sydney's arm painfully. "You stay away from the holes, and you keep little Nadezhda away from them. Babies bigger than you died there last winter."

It had not even occurred to Sydney to argue. She knew about caution. This, above all else, her mother had taught her, after men had come for her dad and she had found her mother was alive and she had found out she had a sister. _Your father didn't look after himself enough, and look what happened to him. He went away, Sydney, so I had to come back to look after you. And if I ever have to go away, you're the one in charge, understand? If I ever go away, you have to look after yourself and little Nadia. If someone comes to the house, hide in the cellar beneath the kitchen._ There was a hole bored into the wall of the cellar, where jars of strawberry and cherry compot had been stored one against the other as a screen. There was just enough space for Sydney to curl up inside, holding little Nadia in her arms. _Don't speak to anyone who comes here. Don't let them see you. If I ever go away, you're to burn your papers and let Baba Maya tell them you're mute._ And she had shown Sydney where the guns were hidden.

They have stayed for almost two entire years, and Sydney is worried that she's starting to forget. She can almost remember being carried in someone's arms through JFK Airport, but though those arms were soft and warm, they weren't her mother's arms. She can almost remember the train from Kiev, and uniformed men peeling back her eyelids and shining lights in her eyes. She can almost remember her arrival here, when, within a day of arrival, Baba Maya had shown her how to tie up her hair, so that not a wisp of a curl could be seen outside of the colourful headscarf she tied in a tight knot.

"Mom, why doesn't Nadia have to wear one," Sydney had complained and tugged at the uncomfortable knot at the nape of her neck.

"She's too little, Sydney. Now hush, I'm going to take in some of these skirts. We can't have you wearing those jeans anymore."

And Sydney's precious Levi's had been pushed into the iron stove as mere kindling.

Sydney glared at the chalk pit, kicking bits of rubble loose. "I hate it here," she whispered furiously. Her clothes had been burned, and her hair had been bound, and – and – nothing had been done to Nadia at all. Still too little to know about clothes or hair or anything, she got to stay exactly how she had always been, only she had gained a parent.

And Sydney?

Sydney was stuck in the middle of Kursk, with an old woman she called 'Baba' instead of Grandma, with a woman she wasn't allowed to call Mom anymore (and who had never been her mother), forbidden from speaking English and due to lose her name any day now. _We'll have to think of something other than 'Sydney'. What would you like to be called? How about 'Olga'? Isn't that a pretty name?_ Olga Bristow? Sydney had thought doubtfully. That didn't sound pretty at all. _We can even shorten it to Olya. Olya Derevko. Only we may have to change the 'Derevko' part as well._

Nadia had gained a mother, and a grandmother, and a whole new country.

_Dad,_ Sydney thought tearfully, _Daddy, I want to go home._

And she can almost remember her father's face.

*

fin


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